


The White Hand

by Mertiya



Series: The Hand of the Mighty [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Averting destiny, Drug Use, Explicit Consent, Friendship, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Master/Servant, Medical Procedures, Safe Sane and Consensual, Saruman the actually white and wise, Subspace, Things once broken can still be mended, at least as Vala/Maia sex goes, consensual whipping, it's consensual but Mairon is EXTREMELY uncomfortable with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25786207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Mairon and Melkor make up and actually manage some communication.  A group of Maiar arrive at Angband with an offer.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: The Hand of the Mighty [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858411
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	The White Hand

**Author's Note:**

> particular thanks to StubHub for letting me throw excerpts at her all the time.

The bed chamber was in disarray. Mairon gazed about it with something halfway between guilt and fear twisting in the pit of his stomach. The window was open, and the floor nearly to the bed had been soaked with rainwater. Beside the bed lay a welter of objects that had been knocked onto the ground. On top of the pile, the cup he had made had been set up, but it was half-crushed. Mairon did not know if it could be mended. It was just a cup, but looking at it made him feel sicker than ever, so he stopped.

Instead, he knelt on the other side of the bed, head bowed, his hand and wrist pressed into his knees. His still-ragged, lengthening hair fell about him, and he shut his eyes and waited.

Outside, the storm was still raging with fury, howling and shrieking with the pain that Mairon knew he had caused his lord. He could not retract words spoken, but he could offer pain for pain. If that was what Melkor desired. Mairon had been avoiding this—Melkor had _allowed_ him to avoid it, for which he was unutterably grateful. He did not really understand what had motivated Melkor to do so, but he did not feel that he could avoid it any longer. It was not that it had been such a burden in the old days, but—there was a fear of what it would mean now. There was a fear of how he would react. But, he told himself sternly, there was no longer any avoiding it.

He did not know how long he had knelt there—long enough that his legs were beginning to cramp beneath him—when he heard the sound of the door opening. He did not look up, keeping his head bowed, his body in a submissive pose.

“Lieutenant?” Melkor’s voice said from behind him. He heard the footsteps of his master crossing the room. Cold liquid splattered across Mairon’s head and hair, but he did not move, forcing his muscles to remain still despite the shiver that begged to be allowed to released.

“I have come to beg for your forgiveness, my lord,” he said stiffly, after a moment. “And for my punishment.”

Silence. Mairon schooled himself to stay in the same position, wondering if Melkor would simply toss him out like the crushed and discarded cup. His master walked around him and sat on the bed in front of him. He was soaked, and part of Mairon wanted to tell him for Arda’s sake to dry off before soaking the bed that he was hardly the only one to use, but he remained silent.

“Captain Gothmog explained Thuringwethil’s plan,” Melkor said at last, in a distant voice. “To seduce the Elf for information about her uncle.”

Brilliant. Why hadn’t Mairon himself thought of that? “Yes, my lord.”

“Why did you not tell me of it to begin with?”

_Because we both know he just made that up to save her skin_. “I am as yet unaccustomed to my old duties, I am afraid, my lord. It was an unfortunate oversight.”

A pause. Mairon’s muscles were trembling with tension. The old ache had started up in his right arm.

“Instead, you suggested that rather than punish the Elves, I should look to the punishment of the one who stole the Silmarils from them initially.”

The pain had migrated to his throat. “I did say that, my lord,” Mairon whispered.

“And should those who imprisoned that perpetrator before likewise be punished? Or was that his due for smashing the Lamps of Arda?”

Mairon’s heart squeezed inside him. “That was not justice, my lord.” _Even if smashing the lamps was ill-advised, and I told you so repeatedly_.

“But perhaps he would not have smashed the Lamps of Arda if part of himself had not been ripped away. So does the fault lie, in the end, with he who was once your master’s master?”

“The fault lies in me for speaking with intent to wound, my lord.”

Gentle fingers reached down, and Mairon forced himself not to flinch and to allow it when his right arm was raised up and Melkor’s fingers brushed across the mutilated end of it. “I do not think the fault lies in you, Lieutenant. Still, if I allow the one who hurt you thusly to have been able to choose otherwise, I cannot deny that I could also have chosen otherwise.” There was a long moment, and then spoke again. “I could have returned at once to that which I hold most dear, but instead I looked to my own vengeance. I must have a care now, not to look to that vengeance over what my precious needs.”

This was—unexpected. It was difficult for Mairon to keep his gaze resolutely lowered and not to look up into Melkor’s face; a moment later, his difficulty was ameliorated when Melkor put his hand beneath Mairon’s chin and lifted his face upwards. “Look at me, Little Flame.”

Melkor looked inexpressibly weary. His hair and clothing were soaked, and the sleeves of his long tunic were charred. Mairon wanted to go to him, stroke his hair, and comfort him, but how could he? This pain was of his own design. “Why do you ask for a punishment now?” Melkor asked. “You have asked for no punishment since you returned from the Elves’ captivity. Have you warranted none?”

“I have warranted many, lord,” Mairon said wearily. “I have been insufficient time after time. I have desired absolution many times.” He took a long, deep breath. “But those would all have been punishments for me, not for you. This is yours. It is your right.”

“And if I do not choose to take it, do you still desire a punishment by my hand?”

Mairon swallowed. He had so hoped to not have to answer this question. “I…I do, my lord,” he whispered finally, “But—but I am afraid.”

Melkor’s face could have been carven stone. “What is it that you fear, Lieutenant?”

There were tears pricking at Mairon’s eyes; finally, he had to shut them or allow them, unacceptably, to spill over. “I am afraid I would no longer think only of your touch, my lord,” he finally admitted, miserably. “I am afraid that instead, I—I would—”

“That you would think of the Elves’ torture instead?”

He managed a jerky nod. “That it would be poisoned. That my time with you would be poisoned. That I could not—” He broke off, the nails of his left hand digging into his knee. “That I would be insufficient and so lose what I have left of…what lies between us.”

He heard his master taking a shuddering breath. “And you would risk this for my sake, but not for your own.”

“I hurt you, my lord, I—”

“Hush.” The bed creaked; then Melkor’s arms were around him, and Melkor was holding him close. “Little Flame, have we not many times both hurt one another so? You are not the only one who has spoken hasty words and regretted them.”

Mairon didn’t even care that he was now soaking as well. “Yes,” he admitted. “But that was all before you—before—” Even now he could feel Gothmog’s arms around him, binding him, dragging him inexorably away from Melkor as the Valar closed in. He had not seen it; he had not seen any of it. He had been held in darkness by Melkor’s command until it was all over, and then he had returned to the surface to find it empty, nothing there to mark his Vala’s passing but scuffmarks in the earth and a few drying spots of blood. “When you returned, you did not even see me,” he finally whispered.

Melkor was silent for so long Mairon wondered wearily whether that was the end of their conversation, whether now he was to be flung from the chambers with the remnants of the cup he had forged. Certainly, he was as damaged as those remnants, if not more so. “No,” Melkor said, finally, in a low voice. “No, I did not. And my blindness has harmed you immeasurably.”

He rose to his feet, leaving Mairon kneeling confusedly on the floor. The sound of his footsteps paced back and forth. “I believe you were correct,” he said, and Mairon heard the creak of the wardrobe opening. Then he heard a familiar snap—Melkor had just tested the whip Mairon had constructed more than three hundred years ago. A tiny trickle of heat pooled in Mairon’s belly, but it was still muddled with that fear. “Lieutenant,” Melkor said, returning to the bed. “You said that the one who should be punished was the one who had taken the Silmarils from the Noldor. As his most trusted servant, will you receive that punishment in his place?”

This time the heat overwhelmed the fear. Mairon looked up to see that Melkor was stripping off his sodden tunic to reveal his muscled shoulders beneath and ringing out his long hair. Mairon swallowed, very hard. “I will, my lord.”

“Then get onto the bed.”

Cramped muscles protested, but Mairon ignored them, immediately rising and starting to climb onto the bed.

“Wait. Remove your clothing.”

Mairon’s cock twitched at the authority in Melkor’s voice, and he did as he was bid, pulling off his own tunic and leggings one-handed, then pausing in frustration. It took so long to fold his clothes now. But he refused to leave them scattered about, so he took the time despite the irritation, ignoring Melkor moving around the rest of the room as he did. At least he had become much quicker at it over the past few months.

“Good. Kneel on the bed and raise your arms so that I can bind your wrists.”

Mairon complied rapidly, kneeling up and spreading his arms across the top of the bed. The original had been built with protrusions for this purpose; he had made the more recent versions as a copy, in the hope that Melkor would return. Part of him had thought it in vain, but his faith had been rewarded. Of course, they had also been constructed assuming he would have both hands to use to brace himself with. He hissed through his teeth in frustration.

“Hold still, Lieutenant.” Melkor bound his left wrist as he had always done, then bound the right one much more tightly. “Can you handle this?”

“Yes, my lord.” _The feeling of his arms tied above his head; opening his eyes to find himself surrounded by enemies because of his own failure._ No. He had smelled only rain and earth out there; here there was the scent of rain, but also the scent of ash, and the scent of his master—like ozone and wind, uncontained and unfettered by mortal bounds.

“Good.” There was another short pause, and then he heard the snap-crack of the whip just before it struck him.

The pain that lanced through him drew a short gasping moan from his throat, and he didn’t have a chance to recover before Melkor struck him again. To his immense relief, it was nothing like what he had endured at the hands of the Elves. It was clean, this pain. It was safe. It was his lord and master, the One to whom Mairon had pledged himself, whose right it was to administer this punishment. This punishment that Mairon received in his name.

The blows came hard and fast, each one more painful than the last, as Mairon’s flesh was made tender and eventually broken. The pain in his back was mirrored by the heavy pain between his legs from the shocking, rapid way his arousal overwhelmed everything else. He had nothing to rut against, and there was no way to get relief. “Master,” he moaned. “My lord— _please_ —”

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Little Flame?” murmured Melkor’s amused voice in his ear, and his fingers ran lightly, almost teasingly, across Mairon’s abused back. Mairon moaned brokenly at the sensation crawling in waves down his back and twisting in his belly. It was all there was; it was the center of his whole world.

“ _My lord_ — _Ah_!” Melkor had paused for just long enough for Mairon to start to really feel the secondary pain—the lazy waves of agony licking up his back, blanking out all thought. When the whip cracked again, Mairon screamed and writhed, the jolt that went through him from sternum to groin so heady he almost thought he had come untouched.

Now, instead of the rapid pace he had begun earlier, Melkor deliberately slowed, leaving plenty of time for the pain to sink in, for Mairon’s head to drop, his breathing to sob in and out several times, eyes rolling back in his head as he waited in anticipation of the next strike—the next—each one deliberate, each one powerful, each one pleasure such as he hadn’t felt in centuries. “Master,” he moaned. “ _Master_ —” His cock jolted against his stomach, and he whimpered and twisted, not really trying to escape, just mindlessly seeking a release he could not find.

Melkor’s hand twisted in his hair, yanking his head back, and he whined again, his head full of pain and pleasure mixing together. Melkor kissed him, hard, the angle awkward, biting at his upper lip until he tasted blood. Their breaths mixed together, ragged and desperate. “Please,” his servant moaned dizzily, though he couldn’t remember what he was begging for, “ _Please_.”

“Yes,” Melkor groaned, and his nails raked down his servant’s chest, as he pressed close to his servant from behind, his erection hard against his servant’s back. “You’ve done so well, precious. So well.”

He’d done well. Melkor’s servant sobbed with relief. “I haven’t let you down?”

“Never.” Melkor’s hands were undoing the bonds, and his servant groaned, curling over himself as overtaxed muscles gave out. He fell onto the bed, boneless, exhausted, and still rock-hard. “Who else could display such loyalty, lieutenant? To take your lord’s punishment for him.” He stroked his servan’ts face gently, then his aching back, sending another, lesser wave of pain-pleasure reverberating through his servant’s body. “Now on your knees.”

“Yes, lord,” his servant whimpered. It took him two tries because he was utterly boneless, but somehow he managed to clamber clumsily up onto his hands and knees. Melkor chuckled behind him, and moved to arrange a pillow beneath his thighs. There was another moment of rustling behind him, and then Melkor’s hand ran right up his abused back, drawing another cry from his servant’s throat. The hand paused for an instant, radiating every sensation the servant could ever recall feeling. His neglected cock ached and twitched. Then the hand caught and twisted in his hair and slammed his face into the blankets at the top of the bed, muffling his cries.

He had almost no warning as his lord’s cock pressed against his entrance—just half a heartbeat to force rusty muscles to relax before he was being penetrated. It was large, and it _hurt_ —a different kind of pain, all mixed up with the pain of stretching the rising weals on his back. He moaned into the pillow and let himself be used. Let his master pull out and slam back in, those large hands tightening about his hips. His cock struck the servant again and again in his most tender place, and he choked and bit down on the blankets beneath him, stars bursting in front of his eyes.

He tried to beg for release, but there was cloth in front of his mouth, and he couldn’t. He had no control over anything, but he was held pinned, close, safe. Nails pinched at his hips. He was split open, filled up and spilling over, crying out, covered in sweat and spit and tears. It went on and on, and the ache between his legs drew him onward and onward to further and further heights. He was a vessel, he was safe, he was protected, he was performing his intended function—

Warmth flooded him and filled him even more, and his master pulled back. He whined, pushing his hips back towards Melkor, and Melkor’s hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and turned him over roughly. “You’ve done well, lieutenant,” he said, almost sternly, his voice rough and breathy. He pulled his servant’s pliant body into his lap and finally, finally laid a hand on his servant’s aching, desperate cock.

The world was _white_

_safety_

_the storm howling about him_

_painpleasurepain_

_nothing_

He was lying on his side in the bed. There were strong arms around him. “Mairon?” Melkor’s voice was low and almost hesitant. One hand was stroking through his hair.

“That’s right,” Mairon murmured muzzily, a puzzle piece slotting into place. “Mairon is me.” He giggled. Then, blinking strangely heavy eyes slowly, “Did I do well?”

“You were…” Melkor’s voice hitched in a way Mairon did not think he had ever heard. “You were _admirable_ , little flame.”

“I did well,” Mairon confirmed. He was warm and safe. Although his back was stinging and aching, it was a pleasant sort of pain. A little distant. He winced, realizing that his back was not the only thing that was sore. “’M going to need a bath.”

“Soon. My brave lieutenant.” Melkor kissed his ear softly. “Patience. You were very far away, weren’t you?”

Mairon nodded slowly, nuzzling at the inside of Melkor’s elbow. “Needed it, I think.”

Pause. Quiet. “So did I. Seeing you like that—for me, even after everything—” Mairon could feel Melkor’s heart beating against his back. “I have wronged you greatly, precious.”

Yawning, Mairon wriggled, then looked back at him out of hooded eyes. He did not think he had ever seen that expression of _wonder_ on Melkor’s face before, directed solely at him. “And you have been punished for it, have you not, lord?” he asked, with as much archness as he could muster—which, admittedly, was not much. He still wasn’t entirely certain he could move without assistance. His muscles were all tingling, which meant they were going to be terribly sore the next day.

“True enough.” Melkor sat up slowly. “All right, let’s get you to the bath, lieutenant.”

~

Mairon drowsed, sleepy, clean, and contented, in a way he could barely remember having been before. He was curled up in the immense bed, his back cleaned and the injuries dressed. They would heal by next morning, if previous experience was any indication. In the meantime, his back still stung and ached, but in a distant, pleasant, far-off sort of way. Melkor had carried him to the bath and taken his time caring for him. The outcome of all of this had been far better than Mairon could ever have imagined.

He should try to create an artificial hand, he thought vaguely. He could already see how it might fit together, minute gears interlocking and pulling to reproduce the motions of his own. And yet…how could he? The great irony was that without both hands to perform the delicate work, it seemed utterly impossible. And yet it would be so simple if he could only force it from the image he saw clearly in his own mind into the reality of steel and porcelain. But without the use of his hand, how long would it take him to regain the use of a hand? He doubted his ability to convey such a complex task to another worker at the forge, but perhaps, given enough time and effort. Perhaps…

It was better than despair, at least.

He wondered where Melkor was. His lord had only stepped out for a few moments, he had thought, to order some food from the Orcs and make sure Thuri hadn’t burned anything down. And yet, somehow, he still hadn’t returned. Strange…

Oh, well. Mairon winced, shifted slightly, and then let himself fall into a sweet sleep.

~

Melkor had spent several minutes hovering in the doorway just looking at the red head tucked up in their bed, the way the candlelight gleamed along the loose hanks of red gold spread across the coverlet. There was something undeniably _right_ about that sight, and it only further cemented how wrong he had been to remain in Valinor and seek vengeance, when he could have found a far swifter way to return, and a way that would not have so greatly harmed his greatest servant.

Perhaps it was a betrayal to the ideals had always held to hold Mairon’s happiness above all else, but Melkor felt that he did not much care anymore. He could not stop replaying the moment of horror in his council chambers when Gothmog had flung Mairon’s hand and hair onto the table, the moment he had thought, crystal clear, _I have lost my precious_.

When Mairon sighed and turned over with a soft little noise of pain, Melkor remembered that he was supposed to be returning with food to replenish that precious being’s strength, and he hurried out into the hallway, where he nearly ran into Thuringwethil, who was creeping slowly across the ceiling in bat form.

“What are you doing?” Melkor demanded, still not sure if he ought to be angry at her or grateful to her.

“Lord Melkor!” The little vampire fell with a curse, landing on her back on the ground. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

She had been moving away from their bedroom. Melkor felt that ice-cold anger twining up the back of his spine. “Were you spying on us?” he growled.

“No! Well…yes. But only because I wanted to make sure M—Lord Mairon was all right!”

Melkor opened his mouth to question her further, indignation washing through him—and then he shut it again, because she was not wrong. He paused for a long moment. “Your loyalty does you credit,” he said slowly, “but Lieutenant Mairon is well. Just hungry.”

“Oh, so those were the _good_ kind of screams?” Thuringwethil asked. “I hoped they were, but I wasn’t sure—”

Melkor fixed her with an icy-eyed stare, and she went quiet. “I realize that things in the fortress are changing rapidly, but I would prefer you spoke to me with respect,” he said, and she nodded, quivering.

“I’m s-sorry, my lord.”

“Very well. You may go.” She scrambled to her feet and took rapidly to the air. “And thank you, Thuringwethil—for the care you have ever shown to your lieutenant and your lord.”

He was still thoughtful as he headed down the corridor towards the kitchens, thoughtful as he ordered the cooks to prepare a solid and delicious meal, and most of all very thoughtful when he heard noises outside and one of the younger Orcs came running into the kitchen and halted in surprise and fear when she saw him.

She flung herself immediately to her knees. “My lord Melkor, I was looking for Lord Gothmog.”

“I have no doubt that he would have come to me with whatever your news is, if it is as urgent as your demeanor indicates,” Melkor said, with a shrug. “Tell me.”

“There—there is a group of Maiar at the gates, my lord!”

“ _WHAT_!”

~

Mairon woke to a tremendous crash of thunder that must have come from nearly directly outside the window. With an oath, he dragged himself upright and looked around. The room was still empty, but there was a storm howling directly outside again, which did not bode well. He had no idea how long he had slept, though his back was still painful enough that it certainly wasn’t the next day.

Concerned, he got up, threw on a shirt—hissing again because, no, his back was definitely _not_ better yet—and leggings— _ow—_ and hurried out the door and began to make his way to the bottom of the fortress. He ran into a surprisingly few number of people on the way down, and the first orc to see him went slightly pale—“My lord, are you all right?”

“Yes,” Mairon said shortly, then winced slightly. “Broadly speaking. What’s going on?”

“We’ve been summoned to the gates, my lord.” The orc hovered awkwardly at the edge of the hallway, plucking nervously at her mail shirt.

“Is there something you wish to say, captain?” Mairon asked. “Walk with me.” What in Arda was happening _now_?

“My lord, if—if you need our help, there are many among us who are loyal to _you_ ,” she told him in a low voice, and Mairon actually stopped in the hallway and stared at her. His first instinct was to respond with sheer, fiery anger, but he checked it. Three hundred years, he reminded himself, and the lifespan of an orc was shorter than the lifespan of a vampire or a balrog. She might not even have been born when Melkor ruled, before—before. The second feeling that rose in his chest was a peculiar tightness that he could not put a name to.

“That will not be necessary, captain,” he said. “My first loyalty is to Lord Melkor, as yours ought to be.”

She bowed her head immediately. “Of course, my lord.”

Mairon paused. Three hundred years ago he would not have reassured her. Two weeks ago, he would not have reassured her. But he thought of the words that had passed between himself and Melkor, the way just a few words could turn a terrifying silence into perfect safety. In the name of efficiency, a few more words would not go amiss. “I have not been harmed,” he clarified. “Lord Melkor has done nothing to me that I did not agree to or ask him for.”

There was a pause. “O-Oh. Of course, my lord. My sincerest apologies.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see that her grey skin had taken on a rather darker appearance.

They hurried down to the main floor of the fortress, only to find that the great doors had been flung wide; Gothmog stood in the center of a semicircle of balrogs and orcs, all clutching their weapons. 

“Gothmog, what is going on?” Mairon demanded, striding forward, then realizing he was barefoot and weaponless—not that he could have effectively wielded a weapon currently, in any case. Gothmog, to his credit, did not bat an eyelid at Mairon’s rather disheveled appearance.

“Six Maiar at the gate, Lord Mairon,” he replied. “They stated a desire to parley. Lord Melkor is not in a parleying mood, it seems.”

_Six Maiar_? Mairon did not in the least blame Melkor for responding poorly. One thing after another, it seemed. “Lord Gothmog, with me,” Mairon said. “I will need a sword arm.” The admission was like swallowing a lemon, but there was nothing for it. He was not going to skulk inside Angband when Melkor might be in danger outside.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Gothmog followed him, and Mairon was struck at how comforting the balrog’s solid presence at his shoulder was. He shook his head. His emotions had been as variable as a green wood flame since he had started shouldering his responsibilities once again. He had no time for it.

Outside, Melkor was rising on a current of air, his dark form lit only by the nigh-constant flashes of lightning across the sky and the pale gleam of white light surrounding the Maiar, the source of most of which was the straight black ebony staff held by the white-robed Maia who stood in front of the group. Behind him, the other Maiar all held their staffs high as well, but their light was wavering and almost impossible to see beneath the rain-clouded darkness of the unending night.

“Mairon!” cried the foremost Maia as he appeared, and Mairon paused as he recognized him, and then all the others, one at a time. Curumo in the front, older now, with fine lines upon his face and a long beard of white; Olórin behind him, holding hands with Aiwendil, and Allatar and Palando, also holding hands. And behind them, right at the back, his fluffy brown hair matted to his head, and looking the least different of any of them—Eönwë.

Mairon laughed in disbelief. “Am I not ‘Sauron’ to you now?” he demanded harshly. “How have you come here? _Why_ have you come here?”

“Whatever they have come for, I will destroy them!” raged Melkor, and his voice mingled with the howling of the wind. Hail, wind, rain, and lightning all faltered at the edge of the light, but the darkness was creeping in, and it would not be long before the light failed and the Maiar fell.

Six Maiar could not hope to overcome Angband even when Mairon was its sole commander, not with its sheer stone walls and army of balrogs to command. With Melkor returned—even weakened—they stood absolutely no chance. It did not make sense. A trap, perhaps? 

“We have come— _I_ have come to offer you a gift!” shouted Curumo, planting his staff against the wind. The light expanded a little.

“A _gift_?” Mairon demanded incredulously. If this was a trap, it was a far more complex one than he would have credited the Valar with being able to concoct.

In answer, Curumo raised his right hand with fingers spread, and Mairon went hot and cold all over in an instant. “You would do well not to mock me,” he snarled, feeling the ground beginning to rumble beneath his feet as the earth and flame responded to the twisting pain in his chest.

“We do not mock you, you fool!” Olórin called back. “As it would be a great deal easier to tell you if your Vala would come down and cease making a great palaver over nothing at all.” He did not seem in the least perturbed, and Olórin, unlike Curumo, had never once displayed the gift of a silver tongue.

In answer a great bolt of lightning forked down again. Mairon stood in confusion, for once unsure of the correct course. “Mairon!” That was Eönwë’s voice. And Mairon was—

_\--in the forge with Curumo, as they tested a new alloy, heads bent together as Aulë came up behind them and roared with laughter when the mixture exploded in their faces—_

_\--watching Olórin dancing in Nienna’s rain, the sheer joy on his face something Mairon knew he would never understand—_

_\--walking in Yavanna’s garden with Olórin and Aiwendil, frustrated and seething over something that had happened, something someone had said, again, behind his back; Olórin and Aiwendil were quietly pointing out beautiful flowers, and Olórin was saying something about the tallest flower while Mairon scoffed at his attempts to sound wise—_

_\--but he had been trying to help, in his way—_

_\--and standing beside Eönwë on a mountaintop, gazing down onto the grey sea far below. “I don’t always understand what you want, Mairon, but you are my friend, and I will help you if I can.”_

He shuddered, coming back to himself in the quiet space between one lightning flash and the next. His lips were pressed together, his teeth grinding so hard he could feel the pain of it. “Five minutes,” he snapped. “You have _five minutes_ to convince me that you come in good faith.” Then he remembered that it was not his fortress anymore. “My lord?”

The winds howled more strongly than ever, so strongly that Mairon thought he would be lifted off his feet. Then, in an instant, they died, and Melkor landed with a bump beside him. “Five minutes,” he snarled, to Mairon’s relief. “And then I take you apart and feed you to his wolves.”

~

“We dreamed of it,” Curumo explained, “Olórin, Eönwë, and I. We dreamed of what happened to you.”

“Four minutes and forty-five seconds,” Mairon told him, though he heard his voice tremble slightly, to his disgust. They stood in the entrance hallway of Angband. Melkor had a careful hand on Mairon’s back. Outside the storm still raged, but in here it was quiet, and there was only the soft glow of the Maiar’s staffs and the brighter, harsher light of the torches. The balrogs and orcs stood in a menacing ring about them.

“Then stop using up our time interrupting,” Olórin scolded Mairon, and he subsided sulkily.

Curumo did not bother to acknowledge either of them. “It was terrible,” he said slowly. “A terrible, painful dream. The reality, I assume, was much worse. So we went to Lord Irmo and asked for their guidance. With their help, I wandered far into the realms of what has been and what may be to come. Fragments, only, for only Ilúvatar can view the future as the past and grasp the full scope of the many harmonies as they weave together.”

Melkor growled low in his throat but did not interrupt.

Raising an amused eyebrow, Curumo continued. “One thing did I see, a motif woven early on and playing through the whole Song as it has come together so far: hurt begets hurt, vengeance begets vengeance. Punishment leads to retaliation and they become so muddled we cannot tell where one ends and another begins, until there is only the loss of a beautiful thing. The Lamps, the Noldor, the artistry of the most admirable of Aulë’s forgemasters.”

Mairon’s cheeks burned, and his remaining fist clenched. “Do you mock me?” he demanded in a low voice.

Curumo shook his head. “No. I am speaking the truth, for that is what I have seen. And more—the fragments from the future, all dark; the land of Arda languishing into decay, as all these battles fought destroy more and more of the beauty remaining in the world. And yet—there was the occasional sliver of hope—a light in the darkness. And so I thought that I would offer what gifts I could, so that perhaps there might be more light in the future.” He took a deep breath and then tossed his head. “And what I can offer is the hand of a Maia of Aulë.”

“You would…” Mairon struggled to find his own words. “You would lend your artistry? I could…make myself, perhaps, a new hand with your help—”

Curumo shook his head. “This is a gift, freely given. Because you have need.”

_A gift, freely given_. The words seemed to echo out of all proportion, with a strange resonance that he did not understand. 

Flinching back into the present moment, he shook his head. “A gift,” he murmured, reaching out with the poor stump of his right hand. “You cannot mean to do this. Not for me. Not for a former friend, with all that has passed between us since.”

Curumo’s eyes were clear and untroubled. “I can,” he replied, and Mairon could not understand how it was that he believed him.

~

It was in the dungeons that the gift was given, far away from the starlight and far from Mairon’s forge. He would have preferred the forge for his own peace of mind, but Mairon and Curumo would need to be strapped down, and it was Melkor who would have to use his magic to twist and change and make Curumo’s hand a part of Mairon, while the other Maiar, led by Olórin, would heal Curumo.

Mairon half-expected the Maiar to refuse to enter the dungeons of Angband, certain they would assume a trap, but Curumo, Olórin, and Eönwë did not hesitate at all, and the others followed them. They gathered together as Gothmog and the balrogs brought in two tables. It shamed Mairon to see his former friends looking at those dark slabs with their restraints, and he looked away, pressing his lips together not to utter protests that they had been rarely used over the past three hundred years, and largely by Mairon himself, giving himself up to futile longings for his lost master.

He remained silent as Melkor helped him onto the table, and he did not look at Curumo being helped onto the other. Thuri entered with two mugs, steaming and bitter-smelling. Mairon knew the medicine well, since he had administered it in the beginning to the elves who became their first orcs. He hated the idea of taking it, because he knew he would lose any semblance of control.

“What is this?” Curumo asked.

It was Melkor who answered, voice cold and deep and dispassionate. “It is a potion that will take away your pain. My understanding is that it may also send you to Irmo’s land, but of that I am not certain.”

“Master,” Mairon whispered as Thuri takes one mug to Curumo and Melkor approached him with the other. “Please, I do not wish it.”

Melkor tangled fingers in his long, sleek hair. “I know you do not wish it,” he said steadily. “But I will not have you squirming from the pain while this is done. It is too delicate a business for that.”

Shuddering, Mairon shut his eyes for a moment, clutching at his master’s wrist with his one good hand. “Order me, then,” he begged softly. “I cannot do this without your command.”

“Then, Lieutenant, open your eyes and drink,” Melkor told him, just as softly, and Mairon did as he was bid.

~

He wandered for a long time in a place that might have been Irmo’s halls. He did not know. He had never taken this potion himself before; he half thought he would retain some kind of clarity or consciousness, for some of the orcs had spoken even from beneath its cloying kiss. But he was not in the dungeons of Angband anymore. Instead, he walked in a black darkness into which points of light gradually began to appear, and as each one did, he heard a soft note, like the plucking of a single string.

Mairon looked about him, and he saw that these were not the stars that Varda had placed above Middle Earth, nor were they the stars that Ilúvatar had once sung into being; these were simply little pinpricks of light shining through pinholes in what seemed to be soft black cloth. As he realized this, the cloth itself seemed to sway, and colors began to seep through it, thread by thread.

He walked beside it, curious, as the colors warped and shifted and then fell into a pattern. He saw brilliant lights spinning through the Void. He saw the pattern shift and warp as a new light cut across the pattern. And yet as tangled as he saw that pattern become, it was still part of the tapestry; it did not tear or rend the cloth.

Moving onward, he saw the abstract patterns give way into a series of pictures, but they did not move in a simple line; they branched. Going straight forward he found himself, woven but clear, pacing behind Melkor. Above, Melkor leaving him, and himself staring down at a hammer with a queer, lost expression on his face. Further along, the tapestry split again, and Mairon saw himself kneeling before Fëanáro in one picture, kneeling before Melkor in another. In the latter he had both hands, but still he felt that there was something lost.

This no longer seemed harmless. He moved on quickly. There was no sound anymore except perhaps a soft whispering. He could not feel anything; he could not even feel his feet upon the ground. He saw more images; as he went further, they turned darker, as one thoughtless act beget another and another until the tapestry was red with blood and flame. Everywhere, Fëanáro and his sons slaughtered and maimed and killed, and Mairon saw himself, laughing at bloodshed as he tortured countless Men and Elves and Dwarves, but his eyes were dull black and the flames in them were lost. Melkor blurred in some of the later pictures until he was nothing more than a shadow; but in others he remained clear and unwavering, a cold and deadly presence and all of Arda bowed before him.

Mairon found that he was weeping, though he could hardly feel it. It was all so terrible. He had never faltered at bloodshed when it was necessary, but he could see clearly, here, with all these different roads laid out before him, that as it went on it became less and less necessary until it had become its own necessity and it would never end. They would never have peace and be just the Vala and his Maia.

And yet there were so many pictures missing, Mairon thought in bewilderment. Thuringwethil, serving him soup in bed when he had refused to get up because Melkor was gone, perhaps forever. The three of them playing chess together (Gothmog and Mairon playing chess, while Thuri tried to distract them). Mock battles among the orcs—the three of them laughing until they were sick at some silly battle song. 

So this tapestry could not be complete, Mairon thought, tracing his fingers across the heavy cloth as he walked slowly towards the end. Could anyone weave their own picture? Or were these the only options to choose from, ending in loss and cruelty and decay, with nothing beautiful remaining? Mairon shook his head. It was a trick of the Valar, surely. And yet—and yet he was afraid.

He stalked back and forth from end to end of the tapestry. _I will not let that unhappiness be all that remains._ Curumo had come to them to prevent exactly this. His efforts should not be in vain. The damn chain of vengeance that Melkor described—the other Maiar had arrived specifically to break it. Part of Mairon still screamed to refuse, screamed that how his master had been treated was utterly unjust and any world that could repeatedly throw him out as if he were worthless deserved to burn—but when only ash remained, how could he and Melkor ever find happiness either?

With his mutilated right arm, he reached out towards the final tapestry, which swayed, blank and black, before him. _Flame is not just for destruction, but also creation_ , Mairon thought, and he thought he saw a glimmer of light beyond, in answer. Bright white flame, brighter than any forge, brighter than any he had seen since they had left Valinor—

He groaned and opened his eyes. The flame was still there, hot and white, flickering beyond the curtains of his and Melkor’s bedchamber, and Mairon reached for it, transfixed, only to pause as he saw the fingers of a right hand spread out before him, pale and almost luminous in the strange half-light.

“ _Mairon_!” Melkor was at his side, his hands stroking down Mairon’s right arm, turning it over. Splashes of liquid fell onto it. Mairon pushed himself upright into a sitting position, letting his master examine the hand and inspecting it himself at the same time. It was pale, paler than the rest of his skin, white as paper, and there were long streaks of mottled flesh where it was joined to his arm. But his _fëa_ filled and animated it; when he tried to flex the fingers, he had no trouble doing so. “By the Void,” he whispered. Then he looked up into the naked concern of his lord’s face. “My lord?”

“It was not like the Orcs,” Melkor whispered, sounding almost helpless. “They woke within hours—days at the outset. The blade that the Elf used on you—your _fëa_ tried to reject weaving the hand into itself.”

Mairon stared at him. “My spirit was wandering?” he said numbly. “For how long?”

“Nigh on a month now.” Melkor looked exhausted, with great dark circles beneath his dark eyes. “Your arm swollen, body shaking with a fever such as I have never seen in a Maia.” He pulled Mairon close. “Those Maiar—they stayed. Curumo was walking about within a day—healing easily. Then he turned to trying to help me heal you. I…”

Burrowing into his chest, Mairon delightedly realized that he could cup Melkor’s cheek with his right hand once more, that he could sink that hand into Melkor’s long hair and anchor himself with both hands. “I was angry with all of them, I thought they had foreseen this—but they would not leave your side no matter how much I raged and threatened.”

A lump rose in Mairon’s throat. “I do not believe I deserve such friendship from them.” But perhaps that was the point. He was quite sure that Olórin would say—

“Deserving has nothing to do with it.” 

He looked up to see that Olórin, Curumo, and Eönwë were hovering in the now open doorway, and Mairon had to smile at that. 

“We felt you return,” Eönwë explained. “Please do not glare at us so heavily, Lord Melkor. We have withstood your ire to deliver your lieutenant back to you, and a thank you would not go entirely amiss.”

“Oh, that is simply how his face always is,” Mairon returned innocently and got a bite on the ear as recompense. “I think he has forgotten how to smile,” he continued, feeling a comfortable sort of warmth unfold inside him at Melkor’s answering soft growl.

Melkor got heavily to his feet and, to Mairon’s astonishment, actually inclined his head. “I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said. “With my art alone, I do not believe I could have called him back.” Then, with a glare, “Just do not presume overmuch.”

Wincing a little at muscles stiff from underuse, Mairon slowly pulled himself out of bed. “I also owe a debt,” he said softly. “And an apology. I should—I should have trusted you enough to tell you how much I was hurting in Valinor.” It would not have changed anything, Mairon was certain. They still saw the world so differently. And yet—he thought of the tapestry. If he had left Valinor because he wanted a kingdom where his choices mattered, perhaps he ought to allow that he could not foresee everything. Much as he desired to. He could not make the whole world march and bend to the whims of himself and his master, for that would be to take away from it that which they both desired above all.

It was Eönwë who stepped forward first and clasped his hand. “There is still time to mend things that were broken,” he said quietly.

Mairon heaved a sigh. “I have learned much about mending broken things in the past year.” But it was not, taken as a whole, perhaps an entirely bad thing. Then he glanced over to the heavy curtains, beyond which still shone that silver fire that he thought he had dreamed. “What is that?” he asked. “It looks…it looks like the light of Valinor.”

“Like the light of Laurelin,” Melkor said softly, and when Mairon looked at him, his eyes were cast to the side and to the ground. “But it cannot be.”

It was Curumo who crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, letting a light far brighter than starlight spill into the room and dazzle all their eyes. “The Sun has risen,” he said, sounding satisfied. “And so another broken piece is mended.”


End file.
